The MDP library...

Saturday, June 30, 2012

I rarely read anything that gives me the chills or makes me so desperately want to get to the next page...but feel apprehensive about what I will find when I get there. Duplex by Michael James McFarland does just that! I found myself swept up by a story that I kept feeling I had a handle on, only to be thrown just a bit off balance by a crafty turn in the story. One of the strongest features is how well parts of the tale are IMPLIED. McFarland excels in giving you just enough information so that your mind can run amok.

Mostly clean of when it comes to the edits (so minor that you may not notice any unless you are an editor. I have to say that you will probably finish this story if you set an evening aside and just read. I highly recommend this book to the jaded horror fan who needs to feel a chill.

Today is a good time to just sit back and do some reading. Perhaps you are considering what to add to your Kindle (or other such device). Considering that the weekend is all about Dan O'Brien, take a peek at this excerpt from Bittenand you may have to look no further...

Excerpt:

Chapter
1

Madeline Leftwich sat at the train
station every day at exactly thirteen minutes past midnight. The faded brown
bench on which she sat did not often have consistent occupants as transients
and hobos were sparse this far north.

But
there she sat, hands crossed over her lap. The floral pattern of the thick
skirt she wore was hand-made, buckles and clasps galore adorned the uneven cut
and fold of the garment. Her face possessed an absent quality, not that
characteristics were missing, but instead a vacancy of spirit. That bench meant
a great deal to her. This was the very place that childhood was left behind.

It
had been exactly thirty-nine years since her mother had placed her on that very
bench, brushed back her hair and told her everything was going to be alright.
She had said she would be right back. A promise to a child is a sacred thing.
Even as an adult, Madeline could not tear herself away from the compulsion to
come wait for her mother every day at that exact moment she had left her. The
whistle blew each night as the passenger train rolled into town.

Cold
air rained down upon the open station. Often, there would be sheets of ice that
would expel from the track, lining the waiting area just beside the tracks on
the concrete platform. Attendants had grown accustomed to her presence. Some
even offered her coffee in the wee hours of the morning when they had no other
friend. This night, however, she was quite alone.

Heavy
bleating of the distant train horn filled the night, filtering through a cloudy
fog. The susceptible and otherwise occupied Ms. Leftwich was not yet privy to
the gossip of the town. Murder, a topic of great concern no matter the venue,
would be especially virulent in such a small community. Distance revealed a
dark object hurdling through the night, steam and precipitation sluicing from
the heavy and hot steel that cascaded across the hours of darkness.

The
station was empty. A half-lit banister showed the narrow, icy path that crawled
back out to the blacktop just outside the front of the station. She watched the
train collide with the open air of the darkness, the squeal of the tight brakes
announcing its arrival with startling clarity. Heavy doors opened; artificial
light spilled from the side of the train.

Madeline
watched the open door carefully – waiting. Seconds passed into minutes, yet
there was no sound external to the cold nature of Minnesota. Winter had a
feeling, a symphony all its own. Groaning trees fought against the arctic grip
of snow and ice. Lakes moving in the distance, far beneath the heavy weight of
the ice that had taken residence upon them, filled the night.

Someone
stepped out. Her coat was wrapped tightly around her lithe frame, her sandy
blonde hair tucked beneath a brown wool cap. The scarf around her neck was braided
and frayed; as though it were sewn by someone she knew well, not the simple
manufacture of mass production. Brown eyes watched the empty train station with
great interest and a precision that marked her immediately as more than a mere
observer.

A
bulge at her side revealed a weapon. The simple black bag that was slung over
the shoulder of the long brown trench coat made her appear to be a woman on the
run, or perhaps one who simply liked to travel light.

Seeing
the frail form of Madeline, this sole occupant of the midnight train station,
she made her way toward the sitting woman. Her voice was sweet, her tone full
of purpose. “Excuse me, ma’am. Is this Locke? Locke, Minnesota?”

Ms.
Leftwich watched the woman with wide eyes, pooling with tears. She was severely
confused. Was this her mother? Had this been the person she had waited so long
to see? She hesitated. This woman was younger, younger than she was. Was this
possible: a mother who was younger than you?

“Ma’am,
I…”

“Mother?”
queried Madeline Leftwich, her voice rising shrilly.

“Pardon
me?”

Madeline
did not stand, but instead shuffled her purse at her waist. “Are you my mother?
You left me here a long time ago. Said you would be back, said you would be
back soon.”

Staring
into the vacant eyes of Madeline Leftwich, it took the woman a moment of
complete incomprehensibility to see that there was not much left. Where there
might have once been potential for a woman, were the remnants of some sad
description of what could laughingly be called life.

“No.
I am very sorry. I’m not…”

Madeline
stood now, her features scrunching in anger. “Why would you lie to me? Why
would you leave me here? Why?”

“Ma’am,
my name is Lauren. Lauren Westlake. And I am neither your mother nor a trained
therapist. Can you tell me if this is Locke?”

Madeline
interrupted, her face flush. Her words were filled with venomous rage. “Don’t
pretend I’m a child. I know where I am. I know who I am. Just because you are
my mother, doesn’t mean you can leave me behind.”

Lauren
Westlake looked at the woman in a mixture of shock and horror. She resisted the
urge to physically restrain the woman, concerned about the reaction she might
have. “What is your name?”

Lauren
was uncertain how much further this charade should be carried, whether or not
disengaging from the woman would be simpler. Looking at the woman carefully,
she noticed that her clothing was handmade. The name Madeline was sewn carefully into the breast of her outmost jacket.
Stifling an irritated sigh, she continued. “Madeline. Your name is Madeline.”

And
then as quickly as the madness had come, it dissipated. “Why are you talking to
me?”

“Excuse
me. I…”

Madeline
looked at Lauren strangely and stood, gathering her belongings. She moved past
Lauren and out into the night as though the interaction did not even happen.
Lauren watched her go, scrutinizing the entire exchange in her own mind.
Shaking her head, she adjusted the bag at her back and moved forward past the
dock of the train station and into the cold area just above it.

Ms.
Leftwich was nowhere to be seen. As far as Lauren was concerned, that was for
the best.

The
night was cold. A heavy veil of fog seemed to grow like a behemoth. She looked
down the lane and saw only two endless views of darkness. The blacktop was
crystalline, frozen precipitation having created a surreal sheet that seemed as
though it would be better suited for ice skating than vehicular travel.

“Not
exactly a warm welcome,” she muttered, drawing the top of her coat closer to
her face. There were muffled sounds in the distance, voices that were muted;
sounds that could originate from only one kind of establishment: a bar.
Lowering her head and pulling the strap of her bag tight, she soldiered on.

*
* * * *

Madeline
had made a mistake that night that would cost her life. Each night that she sat
alone at that train station, she would wait for the sun to rise and then
scamper home, ashamed. This night, however, her emotions had gotten the better
of her. And it was in these woods that she would now find herself in the
presence of a particular creature of the night, one that would come to haunt
and terrorize the inhabitants of the small town of Locke.

The
moon overhead stung the fog, driving the ethereal wisps from its view. Wide and
threatening, it looked peaceful when viewed in the company of others, in the
arms of a lover perhaps. To Madeline Leftwich, a woman lost in her own mind, it
was a portent of doom.

Thick
branches grew over the sorry excuse for a path that she walked each day. By
daylight the intricacies could be gleaned, but at night it was a haunted maze
littered with obstructions and potential trip falls.

Her
shoes were a dark fabric. Not the kind of material used when hiking through the
woods at breakneck speeds, though that is what Madeline would need that night.
When she paused at the center of the trail to make sure she wasn’t being
followed, the dead silence of the night became a far more frightening sound.

“Who
is there…” she half-whispered, her voice cracking.

A
branch snapped, frost claiming yet another soldier. Crack. Another sound echoed in the night; this time much heavier,
like weight lingering as a fledging branch gasps for its last breath before
being trampled. She pulled her bag close to her chest, her face twisting in
fear. Her eyes were wide as she searched the night frantically. “There is
nothing there,” she whispered, tearing her eyes from the tree line.

Continuing
forward, her steps were quicker, more deliberate. The woods around her thinned
the faster she walked, white speckled pines giving way to broken branches along
a road of depreciating value. The trail widened in places, enough that little
pockets of dirt and soil were pushed up from use.

As
if something were urging her forward, she began to run slightly, her breath
expelled in heavy puffs of condensed air. She wheezed then, a panicked,
hiccupping sound that erupted deep from within her chest.

And
that was when she heard the first growl. There
was something wrong with it. It sounded like an animal, the guttural low
pitches. However, there was something human to it, a strange gargling sound.
Rising in pitch, it sunk again disappearing into the fog.

Her
feet were not as sure beneath her as she thought. The tips of the fabric shoes
dug into the hard soil, making her wince in pain. Biting her lip hard, she
forged forward, stumbling into an open area of the trail.

Trees
crowded the edges of her vision and the clearing. The trail continued on the
way she had been trampling and then split into two smaller trails yet. The fog
hung ahead of her, pulling away as though it were an entity all its own.

Silence
permeated the area, there was low rustling. And then the growl came again. It
sounded hungry, desperate, the pinnacle of auditory fear. “Who is there? What?
Why are you hiding…” she whimpered. “Please…please.”

It
seemed to come from all around her, enveloping the cold night air. The fog
stirred, deep in its belly a shadow formed. Tall and hunched, it was a mass of
darkness shaped like a man. Heavy in the shoulders, spines seemed to rise
unevenly from the arms and body. The head was lowered and the knees bowed as
though it were ready to pounce.

Yet
it did not. It stood, chest heaving, safely veiled by the fog bank. Hands that
seemed to melt into long thin claws were obscured by the swirling mass of
miasma ebbing and flowing within.

She
was speechless.

Her
mouth opened: no words.

Her
mind raced. Panicked thoughts flooded her mind, erasing judgment and reason.
Muscles constrained, joints locked, she watched helplessly. It took a single
step forward, the heave of its heavy chest frightening.

Madeline
Leftwich was not a god-fearing woman. In point of fact, until that moment she
had not given much thought about death. Never had she thought about whether she
wished to stay in this world: alive, mortal. Now, when confronted with
something drawn from nightmares, her pulse raced and she realized, with a
desperate certainty, that she did indeed wish to live.

The
rain trickled then, a fat droplet striking her across her hair. Her feet hit
the ground hard, her pulse racing as she abandoned her bag. Churning, her feet
dug into the hard winter earth. Her breath sputtered in front of her in rapid
fits of exploding clouds. She whimpered as she ran, tears running down her face
as trees slapped her hard across her cold, sensitive features; some left
bruises, others broke skin.

The
forest was alive with sound.

Creatures
hooted and hollered in the night.

They
knew something was happening.

She
could hear herself breathing heavily.

She
would not last much longer.

Her
foot caught something lodged deeper into the frozen ground, the world spun in
circles as her back collided with the unforgiving earth. The groan that escaped
her lips was foreign.

Frightened
and defeated, she kept very still. Where she had landed proved defensible, high
brush bristling with heavy branches and evergreen leaves that hid her partly
from view.

The
forest beat a heavy drum.

Footfalls
of animals loose in the night filled the air. There was one set of footsteps
that rung above the others: something primal, something large. She covered her
mouth with her hand. Pressing it tightly, a shadow crept across her vision.

She
peered out the side of the brush.

It
stood like a man.

Up
close the fur was matted, uneven, missing in some places. The legs were
muscular and covered in fabrics that seemed to sluice fluid. Hemorrhaging from
the torso, it moved with a predator’s grace.

Its
face was covered in shadow.

Madeline
felt a scream rise from deep in her chest and she pressed her hand harder
against her mouth. Closing her eyes, tears streamed from them. Her chest
heaved, but she tried not to move, locking her body into a paralysis.

She
could not tear her eyes away from it.

Turning,
the face was still well-hidden.

Long
slender fingers, like dull blades, bounced against the creature’s legs. The clothing
was torn and dirty. A smell emanated from it that could only be described as
nausea in the depths of a septic tank. Lifting its head, it sniffed the air, a
hood pressing against its mangled hair.

Her
breath caught in her throat.

The
slow turn of the creature and the bend of its legs as it lowered closer to the
ground was more than Madeline could take. And before she could even remove her
hand from her mouth to scream, it was upon her.

Friday, June 29, 2012

For the next couple of days, I am turning things over to Mister Dan O'Brien. I hope you will take the time to check him out. When I return, I have a few things on my mind...some that will no doubt ruffle feathers...or downright piss people off. Would you have it any other way?

Yet, we
persevere, writing into the late hours of the night and waking in the early
hours of the morning to log the hours and enter, for a time, the worlds we
create. When I first started writing, more than a decade ago, it was because I
loved the idea of immersing myself in a place where I could construct the
narrative; walk through dense forests and to the tops of mountains. Over time
the process became more about writing as a tool to move through emotions and
languishing memories that required catharsis.

Writing
takes on many forms, for many different writers, over the course of our lives.

For me, the
process is the reward.

I love to
write.

When I ask
myself that silly question of what I would do if I had all the money in the
world, the answer is always quite simple: write. Now more than a decade later,
I have a renewed sense of purpose and have become quite adept at balancing the
spinning plates of responsibility.

Recently,
between being a full-time graduate student and writer, I joined Empirical magazine as an editor – among
other responsibilities. A national magazine similar in spirit to Harper’s or The Atlantic, the magazine is firmly rooted in a West Coast
sensibility. There is a little something for everyone, and honestly, the hope
is that everyone will take a look. Contributors to the magazine come from
around the globe and cover everything from politics to fiction.

Working at a
magazine, especially at this point in its maturation, is a wonderful
experience. There are so many moving parts that enliven your day. Sometimes I
spend the day sorting through fiction and poetry submissions, searching for
that piece of prose, or perhaps a stanza, that ensnares my imagination. Other
days I am editing, constantly referring to the Chicago Manual of Style to
ascertain the correct usage of an archaic sentence structure. As a writer, the
prospect of editing and rummaging through the work of others might not sound
exciting, but there are some wonderful consequences:

For many
writers, and certainly for me early in my writing career, the notion of being
picked up by a magazine or a small press was foremost in my mind. It was that
distant promise of publication and everything that goes with it that pushed me
forward. When I got rejection letters, most of which lacked a personal touch, I
would get down on my writing, denigrate my ability.

The years
passed, during which thousands of rejection letters amassed, and I realized
that the pursuit of writing for a purely extrinsic reward was dooming myself to
Vegas-style odds. I became clear to me that I needed to write because I loved
it, and then find a way to share it with others – even if it was not through
traditional routes. I found that I was more comfortable with my writing when I
did it for the pure joy of it.

Now that I
am on the other side of the fence, so to speak, I have noticed a few myths
about submitting to paying publications that otherwise mystified and frustrated
me prior to becoming an editor and being responsible for interacting with
first-time and established authors.

I have
decided to provide a humorous, but serious, collection of things you should do
and things you shouldn’t do when submitting and entering into a discourse with
a publication – sprinkled, of course, with some anecdotes. And without further
ado (or perhaps slight ado if you
count this sentence here):

Things
You Should Do

1. Read
the publication you are submitting to before sending an email. This one sounds obvious, I know.
However, it happens so often that it warrants mentioning. If you have written a
brilliant piece of prose that is about zombies, it is quite likely that Popular Mechanics will not be that
interested in it. Pick up an issue of the magazine you are interested in
submitting to and familiarize yourself with the kinds of stories they publish.
The next part is the hardest part: be honest. Does your piece fit with what
they publish?

2. Read
and follow the submission instructions.
Again, a no-brainer. If you are thinking that you don’t know where to find the
submission instructions and you just have an email address, be prepared for
disappointment. Your email might go to submission purgatory with a one-liner
response about having received your correspondence – if you’re lucky.

3. Address
your submission to the appropriate person. If you are thinking that I am giving you the obvious
pointers, then you are quite right. With that in mind, imagine that I still
receive hundreds of emails a month that manage to ignore these simple suggestions.
If you are writing a stunning expose on corporate greed, the poetry editor is
probably not the best destination for your work.

4. Edit
your work. I tell this
to students a lot, so I will mention it here as well: spell check in Microsoft
Word is not sufficient. I am not saying that you need to be a copyeditor to
submit to a magazine, but do yourself a favor and read it out loud. If it
something sounds funny when you read it, you can only imagine how it will sound
to an editor who is choosing among thousands of articles and stories to
determine what goes to print.

5. Be
cognizant of turnarounds. By
this I mean, the amount of time between when you sent in the work until you
hear back from an editor about the status of your submission. Nothing will send
your work to the bottom of a slush pile than to send a follow-up email the day
after you submitted, wondering whether or not you are going to be in the
magazine. Most publications will post how long it takes to hear back from them
about the status of a submission, and an amount of time after which you should
contact them if you haven’t heard from them.

Things
You Shouldn’t Do

1. Send
an email telling an editor that they would be stupid not to publish your work. It always surprises me when I get an
email telling me that I need to publish a story, poem, or piece of nonfiction
because it is the next best thing. Top this off with letting me know that I
would be a fool not to accept it, almost guarantees a trip to the trash can.

2. Send
a photocopy of your story by registered mail. If you want to have your story in a magazine,
start by giving it to editors in a format that they can actually use. By
sending a faded and blurry photocopy of your forty-word poem and declaring that
it is a soul-searching masterpiece does not inspire as much confidence as you
would think.

3. Contact
an editor on a frequent basis about the status of your submission. I have to sort through hundreds of
emails a day, edit for the current issue, and work on editing an anthology; not
to mention a thousand other intangibles. We posted a time table about getting
back to you for a reason: read it.

4. Be
discouraged by a form rejection letter. This is a bitter pill to swallow for many writers. They
think the form rejection letter means that the editor didn’t read their work,
or simply had things already planned and was stringing writers along. The
reality is on any given month I send out hundreds upon hundreds of rejection
letters. There is simply not enough time in the day to offer feedback to every
single person. This not to say that I do not offer feedback, or that editors do
not offer feedback in general, but instead the process is streamlined so
writers can be responded to in a reasonable amount of time.

5. Call
the magazine to find out about your submission. This is subsumed by not contacting an
editor about the status of your submission before enough time has passed, but I
thought it warranted a special mention considering it is really going the extra
mile in terms of being an irritation. If we haven’t gotten back to you yet,
calling us is not going to suddenly make us more accessible.

6. Send
another email with corrections. Read
twice, send once. If you don’t think what you sent is ready for publication,
then please don’t send it. You get one chance at a first impression, and
nothing speaks to being underprepared and unprofessional than sending a draft
and immediately following up with another draft. If your piece needs work, note
that in your submission, but don’t send a series of emails chronicling the
different stages of the edits for that story. The exception, of course, is if
you have already been accepted and you have been asked to make edits.

7. Contact
the magazine to air your frustrations about not being selected. I say this with all seriousness. It is
very likely that you got rejected because the piece was not a good fit and not
that the magazine has decided to order a hit on your writing career. Please
don’t treat it that way. Lashing out at a publication for sending a form
rejection letter, or passing on a piece you have written, reeks of a lack of
professionalism and could impact your ability to publish elsewhere. Many
editors are friends, especially in the digital age, and word spreads fast.

8. Contact
the magazine to ask if you think a story you are working on would be a good fit
elsewhere. I can
appreciate the sentiment. A lot of editors are writers themselves, and they
love talking about the process and the product. I find myself building
friendships with writers, those we publish and those we do not, and often I
will give them suggestions about their work. However, if you don’t know me
personally and have never been published or solicited in any way to use me as a
sounding board, then do not contact me and ask if a poem or story would be a
good fit at another magazine. If you think it is ready for publication, then
submit it here. An obvious exception would be if the writer knew the story
would not be a good fit and asked because they were uncertain in venturing into
new territory.

I could
probably keep listing things you shouldn’t do, but I will wrap it up there. I
encourage you to keep trying and keep writing. Things only get better with
time, and time is all we really have. I love to hear from other writers and
potential readers, so please stop by and say hello.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Did I make you cringe
just a little bit? Some of you have aClockwork Orange-style aversion to that word.
Then, others see that same word and become giddy with excitement. What is sadly lacking here is a shade of neutral ambiguity. Lately, in
the zombie genre at least, that seems to be a problem. Zombie fiction
writers seem to be splitting into factions faster than a new cast onSurvivor.
I say this with a tinge of tough love…we
need to get over ourselves.

You can’t drop in to one of the plethora of Facebook pages centering on
horror fiction, more specific, the zombie genre, without some poor, picked on,
emotionally abused writer moaning about his or her latest review on Amazon or
some other site. They start by proclaiming how much the critic “just didn’t get
it.” Pretty soon, they have gathered a crowd who express their sympathy. The
next thing is usually an online jihad where everybody goes and “votes that the
review was not helpful.” Did anybody forget that axiom about opinions being
similar to a certain part of the human body that emits a foul odor?

There is a saying, “those who can’t
do, teach” we can add, “those who can’t write, critique” and “opinions are
like…” well, you get my point. Right? How about adding, “I’m rubber
you’re glue…” and “that which does not kill me makes me stronger”.

This column is for writers, wanna-be
writers, and soon-to-be published writers in the indie scene. I specify the
indies because most BIG names don’t get into this type of pity-party/meltdown.
Whatever. If you write, I am talking to you. People, it’s time to
toughen up a bit. I think all of this political correctness in society
has turned us into a bunch of wussies. We live in a society where everyone
gets a trophy just for participating. Everybody makes the team or mommy
files a law-suite against the coach. Enough already. We are zombie
fiction writers, people. I’ll bet each and every one of us has been an
outcast at some point in our lives. We’re made of stronger stuff.
(Can I get an “Amen”!?)

That’s right, I’m about to get up on
the soapbox. Some of you delicate flowers are gonna get your feelings
hurt. Funny thing is I’m not talking to just one person. I am
talking to the group. I love our little niche in the literary
world. (Notice the looseness in which I employ the term ‘literary’) and
want us to grow strong.

So, let me return to my point and
“lay down the heavy.”

It seems that I can’t browse a forum
these days without watching some new drama unfold. And what is it usually
based on? Somebody wrote a negative review (heaven forbid!). Let the school
yard mudslinging begin. Hell, half the time the mud slingers aren’t even the
offended party, they’re simple fringe members in a forum designed to promote
zombie fiction. Enough is enough.

I read everybody. Permuted,
Library of the Living Dead Press, Books of the Dead, Pill Hill, Coscom, and a host of
others. I got news for you…I have read some absolute swill from
each. However…I have read some absolute gems as well. Guess
what? Neither of those opinions means a thing. Wanna know why?
(Okay! Who said, “Because you’re a know nothing dumbass!” Really, how
rude) I’ll tell you why. Because it’s an OPINION! I believe we have
already covered the whole thing about what opinions resemble.

I’ve been sitting back for a while.
I’ve watched what goes on and have stayed out of it. However, with a few
full length pieces out there, over a dozen anthologies that I have edited, I am
fully exposed to critiques. There will be those who think I am a total
hack. OUCH!! Yet not fatal. To those who review me and slice me up
like they are demonstratingGinsuknives, you are entitled to
hate me. You may freely use words like: “sucks” “tripe” “garbage” and “awful”.
I won’t sit here and tell you that it doesn’t sting. No matter, there
will still be those that love
me. And honestly, those are the people that I write for. What’s
more, my wife, children, and dogs, will ALWAYS
love me. At the end of each day…thatis what matters.

Fellow
writers of zombies, let’s take a moment and make a pact. Raise your left
hand. (We’re zombie writers, we do things different. Besides,
raising the right hand is so cliché).

I, state your name, (if you said
“state your name”, go stand in the corner for five minutes)promise
to write with the understanding that not everybody will think that the sun
rises and sets on my butt. I will understand that once a story leaves my
hands, it is out of my control.I
will not engage in petty word wars with critics. That only takes away
time from my writing. Above all, I will remember the saying, “you
can’t please everybody”. In the name of Romero, I make this pledge.
Amen.

Wait, we ain’t done yet folks.
We have talked about the negative. Now, let me speak on the
positive. Just like the ones that cut your legs out from underneath you,
you shouldn’t let the good ones go too far to your head. Or, to quote Han
Solo, “Great, kid, don’t get cocky”.

I’m not saying that you shouldn’t
enjoy the compliments; just don’t let it all go to your head. Take a
moment and think this through. How many times have you read a review,
heard tons of hype, then finally broke down and saw the movie, read the book,
or bought the record? (Kids, records are large round things that your parents
used to buy to listen to music from shortly after the dinosaurs died) now, how
often did it live up to the hype? That’s my point…toomuchpraise can sour things far more than a
negative review.

I read all the reviews out there on
my stuff. And I can tell if somebody has actually read it, or if they are
simply writing a fluff piece. Honestly, I would prefer nothing, or a bad
review, over a fluff piece. At least that way, I know that they have read
it.

Again, remember that you are writing
for a target audience. Given time (and talent) you will build a fan base
(see Rhiannon Frater for example) she’s won over a fan base. Yet, there
are those that don’t like her. (I call those people mindless heathens,
but I fall into the fan category)Once
again, use your melon. How many of you have certain writers that you wait
on anxiously for their new release? Oh, so I’m the only one? C’mon
people…show of hands. That’s better. I’m not shy; I’ll tell you my
list: Scott Sigler, Jasper Fforde, Rhiannon Frater, Kim Paffenroth, BrianKeene, Kim Harrison, and my newest edition, Mark Henry. I am what you
call “Brand Loyal”. There is also a list of people that I would never
read again if you held me over a pit of hungry zombies consisting of my three
ex-wives. Want to know whotheyare? (The writers I don’t like,
not my ex-wives, dummy.) Too bad. It doesn’t serve a purpose, and quite
frankly, it is mean-spirited. I’ll admit to petty, but not to mean.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

There is absolutely no chance for the reader to ease into this story. It launches right into some edge-of-your-seat action to draw you in and let you know that you should clear the rest of your day because you won't be setting this book down any time soon.

I am seldom disappointed with anything from Mr. Snell and Permuted Press. (In fact, I guess I am still waiting for that to happen.) I am often skeptical when attempts are made to cross the genres, and I admit to the same trepidation here. I am (admittedly) not much of a were-anything fan. It just never seemed like something i could get into and care about. I was proved wrong here because it was so well explained spliced into the story. To have the "super human genetic engineered warrior" can be a dangerous move. No worries here.

There is a very fine development of character here, but I must admit that I felt there could be more story if allowed. My only complaint is that i would have liked it if this tale could have actually been much longer. There were simply so many characters that deserved more 'page" time. Actually...Jorge could have his own book. This comes from some very nice dialog that many stories bog down in. However, dialog is a strength here.

Misters Snell and Brannan should be proud of what they have done here. Congrats to them and Permuted Press for providing a fun summer read!

Thousand of
stories have been spawned by the creature that Romero almost singe-handedly
created. Many of those stories refer,
either subtly or quite blatant, not only to elements of Romero’s tales, but
also to the man dubbed “The Master” by millions. Malls have an iconic place in the realms of
the zombie multiverse. There will always
be “outside” threats from other survivors that seek to spoil some false
utopia. Often, the zombie is the lesser
threat as it brings out the best and the worst from those who fight and
struggle to survive.

The zombie is a
terrifying monster because of just how very “real” they are. Whether it is due to a viral infection that
causes bestial rage ala 28 Days Later,
or some bizarre radiation dragged in from space by a crashing satellite, a
zombie is not too far-fetched. After
all, The Bible features the first
possible zombie: Lazarus. The story
never says what happened after Jesus left. While it is not assumed that Lazarus
went on a flesh-eating spree, it still opens the mind to the possibility of the
dead re-awakening.

As horror has
unraveled and become slash or torture-porn, and the good, old-fashioned monster
has morphed into the stranger next door...the zombie remains. As vampires undergo high school hormone
make-overs...the zombie endures. As
Jason spends his time battling Michael and Freddy...the zombie trudges on. As sick old men take out their frustrations
of a cancer diagnosis on perceived ingrates with no appreciation of their lives
by trapping them in unsolvable torture puzzles that would repulse
Torquemada...the zombies gather outside by the millions seeking to devour the
last survivor. As today’s scary story
plays out on the six o’clock news...zombies break down the last door.

George A Romero
created the perfect monster. While Bram Stoker deserves the credit for giving the
world the term “undead”, Romero must likewise be credited for the zombie. Haitian mysticism aside, Romero’s
flesh-rending ghouls are what launched a true horror franchise, setting the bar for any who would follow to aspire to reach.

While vampires
have been transformed into teen idols and figures of romance for the MTV
generation, the zombie has steadfastly remained horrible and gruesome. Removing Shaun
of the Dead from the equation—the British can make anything seem funny—there
is no humor to be found, nothing pretty about being a zombie. This etches the
zombie as seen through Romero’s eyes into the annals of true monsterdom. There will be no zombie love-triangles. (If there is, it will most certainly be
overtly comedic or graphically pornographic which, in either case, excludes it
from the horror genre.)

Only the zombie
can claim status as true horror-genre worthiness. Vampires give over too easily
to romance and thus, their fear factor has faded in the Twilight. Frankenstein is a moralistic tragedy, and only Hollywood
could truly bastardize the story enough to create such a monster of deserved
sympathy.

The zombie, as
given by Romero, stands alone on stiff legs and plods endlessly forward as the
vanguard of horror...its last remaining champion. Since these flesh-eating ghouls were set free
in 1968, they have captured a devout following.
No other genre can boast of such underappreciated inspiration.

While
Frankenstein’s monster inspires feelings of pity and vampires come in their
various shapes, sizes and degrees of (gasp!) good, the zombie is steadfast. A
zombie kills. Those it kills—provided enough
remains—get up and kill. Empty a machine gun clip into a zombie’s torso and you
merely slow it down.

Despite looking
somewhat human, a zombie is a monster. Strip away all the implied social
commentary and it remains a monster bent on eliminating humanity. As long as a
single, uninfected person lives and breathes, the zombie will continue to
threaten the existence of man.

An update on the diet and exercise routine: As day 3 begins, I must say that day two was the most difficult. The soup--which was so enjoyable on day one--becomes almost like a punishment. Also, the selection of fruits on day one was more varied and enjoyable. There seems to be a lack of enjoyable AND tasty raw veggies. (At least in my opinion.) However, my weight this morning on the start of day 3 is 246.6 (7.2 pounds).

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

There is another
yardstick in which to measure the rise of the zombie’s star: book stores. Where, once, the bookshelves were practically
bare, there is now a plethora of zombie fiction to choose from. One telling
sign of its growth is that a multitude of women writers are venturing into the
once male-dominant turf with some very smart, character-driven stories.

More does not
necessarily mean better and there is a negative aspect of this newfound resurgence
in all things zombie. There is certainly a great deal more chaff to sift
through. The degree of formulaic storylines
and one-dimensional characters taking place in zombie fiction prove the “more
is not better” thesis. While many zombie-fiction writers fall into the ‘easily
forgotten’ category, there is a handful who are ‘must reads’: Rhiannon Frater,
Max Brooks, S.G. Browne, Kim Paffenroth, and Robert Kirkman. Of that group, half of them (Brooks, Browne,
and Kirkman) have screenplay deals.
Kirkman’s The Walking Dead
series of graphic novels is a smash hit for A&E. Brad Pitt purchased the
rights to Max Brook’s World War Z and
Browne just signed the movie rights away for Breathers: A Zombie’s lament.

Currently there
are a few publishers who deal heavily in zombie fiction:Permuted Press,Books of the Dead (via James Roy Daley) and my own (excuse the shameless plug), MayDecember Publications are among some of the more prolific. These three houses each publish between eight
to a dozen titles a year consisting of a mixture of full length novels and
anthologies. All three have no qualms
about taking a chance on a previously unpublished author. It would seem that the ‘zombie infection’ has
not only spread, but is thriving in the literary world.

As a side note on a completely unrelated topic, I am in day 2 of my P90X restart as well as a week of adhering to the dietary guidelines from the book The Seven Day Diet Plan. I will post my results at the end of the week, but as a reminder, my starting weight was 253.8.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Went to see Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter in 3D on Sunday. Just a side note...the last movie that I saw in 3D was Jaws 3. To say that I was blown away by what I saw would be an understatement. I was mesmerized by the trailers for coming attractions!

As for the movie...it was brilliant! I guess now is a good time to say that I am a huge Civil War buff. (My book Dakota deals with that era and was actually inspired during my time living in Charleston, South Carolina. I thought that it was stunning visually and kept me entertained from start to finish. When it comes down to it...isn't that the goal of any film?

The man playing the role of Abraham Lincoln was the perfect balance of stately politician and action hero. The villain, Adam, is done to the utmost by evil character actor, Rufus Sewell. However, Jimmi Simpson was perhaps my favorite of the cast. He reminded me of a young James Spader.

If you are looking for harsh criticism here for any discrepancies in historical content, I won't be going that route. The movie was entertaining and fun! I loved it and will add it to my DVD collection when it comes out because it is worth watching again. The scene on the train was worth it alone. Far-fetched? Sure! But freakin' amazing!

When I go to a movie...my biggest concern is if it made me laugh, cry, or feel any sort of emotion. I chuckled a few times and was so swept up at others that I realized I was leaning forward to the point of almost being in the next row. So...yes...the movie was worth the time and money. And if you can.see it in 3D. I was captivated by the dust motes!

Full disclosure...I edited this and the previous entry (Masters & Renegades: Magic University. However, I would not put my name on something that I did not believe whole-heartedly in. That said, Casualties of War is even better than the first book.

The focus is on a few of the familiar characters from the debut in the Masters & Renegades series and takes place a while after the trials concluded. The Renegades have opened their own academy and the Master Mages are not pleased. Some go as far as to embark on an secret war that includes the magic equivalent of bio-terrorism.

This book allows the reader to become even better acquainted with a few of the originals while very smartly introducing a few new names. It is not done as a laundry list, but rather a masterful introduction that seems to be Ms. Boudreau's forte as a storyteller. As a reader, it is very easy to become attached to these people and they really do come to life on the page.

No spoilers here, but there will be some twists and turns including a moment that made me set down the book and shoot off a rather annoyed email to the author. Bravo! It is so nice to find a writer that makes the reader feel REAL emotions while reading.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

If all that is
wanted form a zombie horror film are a few good scares and some gruesome
effects woven into a terrifying story of one possible apocalypse, look no
further than the series of remakes based on the original Romero trilogy. If a bit of low-brow camp mixed in with formula, and a dash of full-frontal nudity is desired, then the oft-confused Return of the Living Dead series of
movies will satisfy. For good
old-fashioned horror that keeps its audience on the edge of its seat peeking
through splayed fingers, there is the 28
Days Later films. Last but not
least, for the bookwork there are a plethora of novels, novellas, graphic-novels,
and anthologies.

Night of the Living Dead was re-made by
protégée and effect legend, Tom Savini in 1990.
The film remained true to its predecessor in many ways and satisfied
those who could not appreciate the noir of black-and-white, but would not
tolerate a colorized film. Most notably,
the shambling zombies creeping in on the protagonists like the tide offered a
feeling of a certain and methodical doom.

Savini focused
on the strength of his talent with effects while producing a more “politically
correct” story. Barbara was no longer a
damsel in distress. Instead, she was
portrayed as a fierce survivor by Patricia Tallman. Lacking the degree of racial tension between
Ben and Harry Cooper, all of the individuals seeking refuge in the farm house
fight amongst themselves. It is
Barbara’s tough, no-nonsense attitude that provides the glue. There are subtle twists and changes to the
climax, but Savini stays off the soapbox and produces nothing more than a
monster movie.

Danny Boyle brought his British art house horror film to the United States in June of 2003 after considerable critical acclaim. There are numerous and obvious nods to Romero, but the Alex Garland story is its own entity. It is in 28 Days Later that the zombies, or, as they are referred to in this film, ‘infected’, are sprinters. In fact, when casting extras, Boyle sought out English Football and track stars to ensure speed. It should be noted that many Romero fans supported and gave positive reviews of the Boyle film. The actual divisiveness surrounding the sprinting zombie came when Snyder utilized them in his remake.

In March of
2004, Zack Snyder released the remake of Dawn
of the Dead. Throughout his film,
Snyder “tips his hat” to Romero. In
addition, he sought to win over fans of the original films by inserting gems
that die-hard fans alone would appreciate.
There were cameos by original members of the 1978 film; Scott Reiniger, Tom Savini and
Ken Foree. Each had spotlight scenes
with dialog and Foree was even cast as a television minister where he repeated
his “When there is no more room in Hell...” (Dawn 1978 and 2004) line. A
mall provided the central setting for a group of survivors. That is where the similarity ended. The movie was an entirely different story
from the original. Snyder’s most glaring
difference would be the use of “sprinting zombies”. While seemingly small, the use of the fast
moving or sprinting zombie is a source of much debate in the horror
community. Very few fans of this
particular monster have no opinion on the subject. The Snyder film, while polarizing, was
actually riding the wave of zombie fiction popularity ushered in by the entirely
new and different franchise: 28 Days
Later.

Speed is not the
first issue that had disrupted and divided the zombie community.In 1985, as the third movie
in the Romero saga, Day of the Dead,
limped into a limited release as an independent film, another zombie franchise
was seeing wide commercial release.Return of the Living Dead was seen as
nothing short of an insult and defacing of the Romero name by a vast majority
of purists.This film would strip the
zombie of his ability to frighten.Even
more appalling, it would create an off-shoot in the mythos that has—some
believe wrongfully so—managed to survive for over two decades: the zombie as a
TALKING brain-eater.Either aspect alone
is a corruption, the combination of the two is abhorrent to the fans of
Romero’s creation.

When Baby
Godzilla was brought to the screen, Godzilla stopped being a terrible monster
bent on ruin. He became a bit
ordinary. In fact, he served as Japan’s
savior from the likes of Ghidra ad Mecha-Godzilla in future installments.

Likewise, when a
zombie takes time off from wreaking carnage to get on a police radio and say
“send more cops!” (Return), there is
a laugh factor that has been irrevocable introduced. The
Return of the Living Dead franchise has transformed a monster capable of
instilling fear into a buffoon. The
zombie was taking a cue from the Nightmare
on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors version of Freddy Krueger and zipping off
one-liners. Had it billed itself as a
comedy, Return of the Living Dead
could be forgiven. However, by being
billed as horror, the film was fostering the illegitimization of the zombie as a monster.

The other
damaging effect of this new franchise is one that lingers today and has even
affected some of the purists. “Brains!”
(Return). With that one word uttered by a newly
animated corpse, a peculiar conundrum, was caused in the worlds of zombie
lore. Since the universally accepted
manner in which to dispatch a zombie is a brain injury, and the contagion was
spread via bite, how could a now brainless corpse rise and join the horde? The Romero-zombie was not capable of speech,
nor was it a discerning eater. In fact,
it was the scenes involving individuals having their insides torn out as they
screamed in agony that made death-by-zombie so terrifying.

Where the Romero
franchise (remakes included) as well as the Boyle film(s) maintained their
mythos—a headshot was the only way to stop the zombie—the “Return” movies
changed from title to title. In the
first movie, headshots, dismemberment and bludgeoning would all prove useless
and only cremation would suffice. In one
scene, a cadaver has re-animated. It is
decided that the classic head injury method be used to dispatch the
creature. A pick is driven through the
zombies head; yet it continues to struggle. One character exclaims, “Well, it worked in the movie!” Another replies, “You mean the movie lied?!”
(Return). The movies in this franchise were merely
parodies full of gore for gore’s sake. They didn’t scare so much as cause the viewer to cringe.

The zombies had
been made more human. The one thing that
truly made them monsters had been diluted and weakened. People were no longer afraid of some
rubber-masked creature from a dark lagoon.
Radioactive giants or mysterious beasts from strange lands could not
scare us. The news on television was full
of much worse: Charles Manson, Jeffery
Dahmer, Jim Jones, the Heaven’s Gate cult, Columbine High School, and Mohammad
Atta. Just as the movies were showing
us...WE had become the monster.

About Me

TW Brown is the author of the Zomblog series, DEAD series, and That Ghoul Ava series. He is deeply immersed in
pursuing his dream of being a “full-time” writer while trying to balance the
duties of husband, father, friend, and Border Collie owner. He keeps busy
reading and editing the numerous submissions for a variety of upcoming
anthologies and full-length titles for May December Publications. He has had short stories published by Pill
Hill Press, Living Dead Press, and others.